


touch faith

by Blake



Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [10]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BotFA, Dragon Sickness, M/M, pining?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Some things are better kept at one’s side, untouched, unsullied
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705147
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	touch faith

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! And rusty lol. Here's some angst I guess. But everyone lives and nobody dies [implied].

Thorin keeps a gold coin in his hand always, tossing it away as soon as the heat of his hands threatens to bend it, and replacing it immediately with another from his pocket, and ever refilling his pocket from the endless supply spilling across the halls of Erebor. There is a countless number to be touched, and more gold under the mountain, calling to him, ignoble rock begging to be rescued from obscurity and hewn by strong hands into something beautiful, valuable, coveted. The call of it soothes him, grounds him in what would otherwise be a frantic search for that which he may not yet hold between his palms.

The Arkenstone is somewhere in these halls. He knows it. He must know it. He must hold it before his hands grab hold of something they can damage, before they worry every coin in Erebor into unholy, bent shapes.

It’s a delicate balance, like air and fuel in a forge. If he should focus too keenly on the gold in his hands, he will ruin every coin in his endless search. If he should throw himself too fully into the search for the one thing that will save them all, he will forget himself and touch the thing that seems so very much like the one thing that might save him.

As he worries the coins in his hand, he half-wonders if it’s a habit he learned from watching _him_. _He_ is always turning something or other over in his palm, or in his pocket. He never stops fidgeting, and Thorin never, ever stops watching, no matter how beautifully bright and red-hot the light of Erebor glows.

Some things are better kept at one’s side, untouched, unsullied. Perpetual reminders of hope, faith, salvation. An arm’s length away and no more, and no closer.

Vaguely, he recalls past hopes, from not so long ago, of completing some task and earning the right to hold Bilbo close, and perhaps to grow something together, like the homely acorn wrapped tight in the sweat and dirt of Bilbo’s loving palm.

But he can’t—He can’t remember that now. Such things seem like fantasies, dreams at the edge of his consciousness, when the halls shine so bright with gold, gold, gold, and the Arkenstone lies hidden somewhere, waiting to be touched, impossible to break.

Bilbo flinches away, and Thorin doesn’t know what he just said or did, or where they are in the halls, aside from the thrumming _here, here, here_ of the gold in varying thickness surrounding him. But Bilbo’s movement fills him with a sudden, gasping awareness of that reaction being so right, so perfect. _Yes, where he should be, at my side, an arm’s length away._

“You needn’t worry.” Thorin hears his own voice as though his ears are filled with water, and he feels the smile tugging at his lips as though his skin were drawn tight and numb by the sun. He presses gold into his palm, imagining the ridges of the coin digging into his flesh and leaving an imprint. “The Arkenstone will be found.”

Bilbo fiddles with something in his own hand and cocks his head to the side with a curious look, a _knowing_ look. He alone sees how it must be. Thorin must have one hand in his gold, one hand on the Arkenstone, and Bilbo close enough to watch and protect at all times. That is the way of things, now.

“It is not the Arkenstone I worry about being lost,” Bilbo says, his voice sounding so much farther away than a mere arm’s length.

Thorin averts his gaze, because the depth of Bilbo’s eyes draws him in and drowns out the light of that which shines around them. Those eyes offer the false promise that purity can draw things into its darkness, in absolution and union, without being destroyed.

When he looks to the gold in his hand, the shape of his palm has left its mark upon the soft metal, a curve in the center of it that mars its beauty and value.

“The battle will not be lost.” Thorin slips the coin quietly into his pocket and draws out another.


End file.
